A Day For Goodbyes
by Vescere Bracis Meis
Summary: The closure of an accident that was never meant to happen. Slash, and ridiculously proud of itself as well.


A Day for Goodbyes

_Summary: The closure of an accident that was never meant to happen. Slash, and ridiculously proud of itself as well._

_WARNING: Heavily-implied slash. Spell it with me: S-L-A-S-H. _

_AN: All reviews are welcome and appreciated, even the not-so-friendly, but please don't shout at me just because it's slash. You can rail about the language, the style or the OOCness all you like, just don't blame me because you tried and decided you didn't like. Next time you'll know to go for the salad option, huh?_

The sunlight filters in through the heavy wooden shutters, spiking the gloom with bright fingers that highlight the tiny dust particles. The mirror on the wall reflects the sunlight back into the open air.

"When's the wedding?" The young man's reflection jumps slightly, and he glances nervously over to the bed and the tall skeleton of a man reclined there.

"I didn't realise you were awake." His hands shake slightly as he fiddles with his cravat, the slippery silk sliding through his fingers again and again. He pauses. "11 o'clock, if you must know."

"You're going to be late." The other man states with equanimity, cocking his head inquiringly.

A small smile directed at nothing. "I know." Pale blue eyes catch gold in the smooth depths of the mirror-pane – catch it, and hold it. Erik laces bony fingers over the sheets with a wry grin.

Raoul fumbles with the knot at his neck, miserably, but the silk rope just slips through. And through and through and through. Erik rises with an impatient sigh and stalks over to where the younger man stands, shifting his weight uneasily from one foot to the other.

"Honestly, Vicomte, you are useless." Deft fingers thread the silk over and out. "Surely…by now…you should be able…to tie your own…damned cravats."

Raoul does not smile. He does not take the bait. He simply stands there, looking lost. Erik stares at him, long white fingers still resting at his neck, but this time Raoul cannot meet his eyes. The older man snorts and retreats back to the relative safety of the bed, and the young man realises with a start that he is naked. White marble over bone, he thinks sadly, with snow flowing through his veins. Erik looks up, perhaps feeling the other man's stare, and looks surprised for a moment before breaking into that mocking, easy smile.

Raoul flushes, wretchedly, but allows himself to acknowledge the bitter exultation resulting from that momentary astonishment flashing across Erik's face. It is not often that Raoul can surprise him.

He looks in the mirror. His waistcoat is immaculate, his frock coat hung neatly over a chair, and his cravat is tied perfectly. Of course. Erik is an artist, after all.

He shrugs resignedly. He looks the very paragon of a gentleman, but then appearances can be deceiving. He thinks that Erik knows that all too well.

"Don't look so _bereft_, Vicomte. Bad enough that you'll be late because of it, but I'll not allow you to marry Christine _looking_ like you've just rolled out of sin."

Raoul looks up sharply. The other man is dressing unhurriedly, perched on the edge of the bed like some great, ungainly bird, slowly buttoning his white shirt. He throws him a careless, lazy grin that is all teeth and does not reach his cold eyes.

"In a few hours you'll be a respectably married man, within a couple of weeks you and your beloved will have your own little house in Paradise, and no doubt beautiful, healthy children will soon follow."

He cringes inwardly at the bitterness in Erik's voice.

"In a few months you will perhaps look back on this time, and it will all seem like a mad dream, a dark tunnel that eventually led out into sunlight."

"It doesn't feel like a dream." He said slowly. "It feels real. Like the only real thing left in the world."

Raoul smiles a strange, dislocated smile. Erik drops his eyes.

"I hate you." He says with quiet emphasis. "Never doubt it."

"And I hate you, Monsieur. But at least it's a solid thing – tangible." Raoul shakes his head. "Not like loving Christine."

The other man goes very still. "Loving Christine had better be real, Vicomte, for both our sakes." He starts to say something in reply, perhaps some meaningless apology for bringing Christine into this, like drawing blood from the lips of a wound. The other man cuts him off.

"I have never believed in goodbyes."

"No." He agrees, emptily.

A short silence.

"Is it far?"

"What? No. Not far. It shouldn't take long. I can walk to the town, and then get a carriage…" he knows that he is babbling helplessly, and bites off the end of that meandering sentence grimly. Not point in postponing the inevitable, after all.

Quietness descends again.

"Well, I can't say that this hasn't been enjoyable," Erik begins with forced joviality, and Raoul wonders who he's trying to fool. "-but you should go now. She'll be waiting for you."

"Yes."

He hesitates in the doorway, fiddling with his shirt cuffs. Erik will not look at him, and he is suddenly glad.

"Go." he repeats, in a gentler tone of voice. Raoul is faced with the long expanse of cloth-covered back to spit out his farewell to.

"Erik." He says abruptly. That skinny back stiffens slightly at the sound of his given name.

"Monsieur." A curt nod.

Raoul leaves.

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Erik waits until the door has been shut with firm gentleness before getting up again. The boy cannot even close doors normally, he muses. Most people would have given the thing a hefty shove, and left it to bang shut of its own accord, but not Raoul. That door clicked shut with a quiet sort of finality that brings a dryness to the back of his throat, more than any kind of melodramatic bravado could have done. _Damn the boy_. He really is useless.

Erik walks to the window just in time to see the bowed figure stride resolutely out of sight down the hill. Well, he can't deny that he'll miss the boy – his company has proved surprisingly…inoffensive, most of the time. It's certainly better than being alone. Anything's better than being alone.

He finishes dressing, and exits the house through the little kitchen door instead of the one which Raoul strode through not two minutes ago. The kitchen is very small, and the dust is thick in the syrupy golden light. Not that we used that room much, he thinks wryly.

The water barrel outside is half-empty where it stands under one corner of the leaking slate roof, but he pushes up his sleeves anyway, clearing away the scum floating on the surface and cupping his hands in the rainwater. It's icy and the warm skin of his face shrinks back in protest when he splashes the water onto the ragged contours. No masks up here. No need for one. Raoul is not even worth hiding from.

The air up here is cold and very clear, and he can smell the rich tang of pine needles underfoot. The bright morning sunlight filters in between the dusky trees. A bird sings, somewhere in the shadowed recesses of the wood. It's going to be a beautiful day.

The loneliness hits him hard and unexpectedly, and he almost doubles over from the sharp pain of it. He knew it was going to be bad when the young man left – he just didn't know how bad. He has got used to the silent presence of the boy; the way he struggles upright in the morning before opening his eyes, the vulnerability of his curled belly when asleep, the quick, economical movement of his hands as he eats. The way his face looks when radiant with ecstasy.

Erik feels vaguely sick, but it doesn't matter now. He's gone.

_I know you,_ he thinks numbly. _I know everything. Even the way you tie your damn cravats in the morning – except this morning, when you were even more useless than usual and needed to be helped. _

It didn't matter. He had left. Now he was walking to town, and pretty soon he was going to get in a carriage and ride…where? Erik didn't know. Raoul had refused to tell him, as if it were his own private means of treachery.

He shrugs, staring at the sunlight ground in front of him. It hardly matters.

Because eventually, inevitably, Raoul is going to arrive at a church, and he is going to marry Christine. She will look beautiful, he knows. They will both blush shyly as Raoul speaks his vow and slips the ring onto her pretty finger, and makes that final, fateful transition from boy to man. Erik is glad. The boy needed to grow up, and he cannot do that by staying here.

And after the wedding there will be feasting and dancing, and Raoul will whirl his new bride around in wild, tender circles, blue eyes meeting in a reflection of each other. Erik smiles slightly, imagining it. And after that…

He stops suddenly, kneels carefully in the dirt, and considers his hands. After that.

He blanches, and then the former Phantom of the Opera throws up the meagre contents of his stomach right into that little patch of sunlight.

It's going to be a beautiful day.

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The uneven rocking motion of the carriage makes Raoul's head hurt. He cradles it in his hands, wishing that he'd never gone back to the cottage on the hill, wishing that he'd got more sleep. And if wishes were horses, than beggars would ride.

He rubs sleep out of his eyes and wonders morbidly about sin. Could you see it? Hear it? Sense it? He imagines stepping out of the carriage, the priest's kind eyes widening in surprise and disgust, and Christine's pretty face crumpling in disbelief. And himself, looking like – what did Erik say? – like he'd _just rolled out of sin_. He utters a tired, awful laugh.

Could you taste sin? Was that what Erik tasted of? Sin and temptation and warm skin. Could you smell it? If so, then that was what he had smelled on Erik? That hot, salty smell of sweat and desire and tears intermingled. If Erik smelt of sin, then so must he.

The treacherous thought rises in his mind like a snake. _At least the sin felt real._ He shakes his head to clear it, feeling faintly horrified. But it did. The cottage, the woods, the man…it was all real, all terribly, painfully real. Everything else was a dream, another of Erik's illusions. He sleep-walked through it, until he could return to the reality. Hating himself, hating Erik, hating himself for his own revulsion-lust, but feeling insanely glad. At least the pain was real.

The bruises took a long time to fade.

The carriage jolts to a stop, and Raoul stumbles out. The man on top of the carriage waits silently.

"I'm getting married." He says, hopelessly, for something to say.

"Congratulations, sir." The man replies, politely. He doesn't understand. Raoul is not even sure he understands himself.

He resists the impulse to scuff his shoes in the dirt. The driver looks at him expectantly.

_Oh._

Raoul fumbles for the money, and almost drops the coins in the churned mud underfoot as he passes them to the man, who mutters polite thanks. The horses toss their heads and stamp impatiently at the frozen earth before the driver clicks his tongue and flicks the reigns gently. They rattle off, leaving him standing at the roadside, feeling alone and abandoned.

_Married._

Raoul wishes he could cry, but his tears are a frozen dam inside his chest. He wishes he was back at the cottage, where things become real and regain their proper perspective. He wishes he was anywhere but here. And he wishes that he felt something other than this terrible, comfortable emptiness. Something. Anything.

It's going to be a beautiful day.


End file.
